The Bra: The Personification of the Female Psyche
by Sita-chan
Summary: [language][happy birthday, ravy!] Spot is forced to do his girlfriend's laundry and ponders how women are like their underwear.


Disclaimers: I own nothing. How sad. Raven owns Mia.

Warnings: Language

Dedication: For Raven on her birthday, one of the only girls I'd write het for.

The Bra: The Personification of the Female Psyche

Bras are really fucking confusing. They, like, deceive you, you know? You look at one, and you think, "that's it? That's all it is? Piece of fucking cake." But I _dare_ you to try and take one off of a girl and not look like a dumbfuck the first time. Nobody can do it. Not eve me.

I knew that bras were kind of irritating when they were _on_ the girl, but I didn't know that they could be just as irritating _off_ of them.

Ever washed your girlfriend's underwear before? Never do it unless she forces you. _Ever_. It's fucking nasty. And weird. Especially when you spend twenty minutes wondering how a girl wears something that's probably supposed to be underwear but really looks like a Kleenex, a piece of floss, and some bows fused together.

Anyway. There I was, giving up my afternoon to wash Mia's clothes, because she was at dance class, and I am a fucking awesome boyfriend. And there I was, trying to untangle her bras, because, while in the washing machine, they'd somehow managed to tie themselves into a knot that would earn any Boy Scout a merit badge.

I picked at the knot with my fingernails. I cursed at it, which I do really fucking well. I threw the bra knot across the room a few times, which caused a couple other people in the laundry room to give shoot me irritated glares. But the goddamn thing wouldn't come apart.

And then I got to thinking. Women are a lot like bras.

You look at them and you think that they're frilly and cute and harmless and that you're not going to have to do too much work with them. You think that you'll just do what you have to do and then toss them to the side. But they can make you look like a total idiot if you don't know how to handle them properly, and they can be fucking _dangerous_.

Yes, a bra can be dangerous. Ever had one of those fuckers snap back at you like a rubber band on steroids? Ever had one wrap itself around your arm like a goddamn boa constrictor? They're _definitely_ dangerous.

And women can be dangerous, too. More dangerous than bras. I'm not _scared_ of Mia, no fucking way, but I've seen her go Italian on people's asses, and I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that shit.

So, you end up treating them with a lot more care, because you're not scared, but you don't want them to snap and fuck you up. Because both bras and women could both fuck you up pretty badly if they wanted to. So, see? You're _not_ scared. You're just cautious. And you're not stupid.

And, then once you really get comfortable with them, you have the balls to admit that maybe you _are_ scared. But just a little bit. Not that much. Really. And then you learn how to really handle them, and things get to be kind of nice, and you forget all about the "use them, drop them" mentality that you had at first.

I felt pretty proud of myself for making a big-ass simile like that. I felt even prouder when I finally managed to get the fucking things untangled.

"You finished yet, Conlon?"

I glared at Mia, then threw the bras at her. "You better love me. I just washed your fucking underwear."

She snickered and shoved them in the dryer. "Like you've never seen them before."

"Whatever." I tossed the rest of her underwear into the dryer, along with her "Dance Or Get Off the Stage, Fuckers" shirt. "Check it out. I had this really fucking philosophical idea when I was washing your shit."

"Hope you didn't hurt yourself."

"Fuck you."

"Later."

"Seriously. See, women are like bras-"

"No shit." She flipped her hair back in that "yeah, I know you want me" way that she always does. "I already know that. Women are definitely like bras. And men are like jock straps."

"We are?"

"Yeah. Sweaty and painful." She snatched up the laundry that was already dry, smirked at me, and then sashayed off towards her dorm as I glared at her back.

Then I realized another way that women were like bras: they were totally unnecessary. But, unlike bras, you get roped into giving a shit about women. And then you can't get out again. But after a while, you don't really care about that any more.

Even though when women snap back at you like a rubber band on steroids, you look and feel a little stupider.

End

Author's Note: Raven actually requested Spot reciting Shakespeare while drunk, but this inspired me today when I actually had to spend fifteen minutes detaching my bras from each other and from the washing machine. And it seemed amusing. So, happy birthday, Ravy, darling!


End file.
